The Mountains Washed Away
by Phreakycat
Summary: Steve, Danno, explosions, and a whole lot of ocean.  Or, the one where I beat the ever-living crap out of Steve and force Danny to swim.  A lot. Eventual Steve/Danno.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Mountains Washed Away  
Author: Phreakycat  
Pairing: Danno/Steve  
Rating: M  
Genre: Adventure, H/C, Slash  
Warnings: Some violence, mention of physical injury, boy love (though I think of this as an enticement rather than a warning...)  
Summary: Take Steven and Danno and blend well with gunfire and an explosion. Add a healthy dose of whump and season well with banter and unresolved sexual tention. Marinate well in ocean water for several hours and enjoy! Or, the one where I beat the shit out of Steve and force Danno to swim. A lot.

A/N: This is my first H50 fic. There are about ten other fics I should be working on currently, but what can I say? I adore these boys and their epic gay love. I also love beating the crap out of Steve. There's not enough Steve whump out there, and as Ghandi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world." I'm pretty certain this is exactly the sort of situation he had in mind when he said that. *nods*

* * *

Danny is going to buy Steve one of those toddler harnesses he sees on kids at the mall. He's going to call up the company and custom order one in BAMF size, maybe something in a dusty rose or pale purple. Maybe then he'd be able to keep track of his partner in gun fights. On boats. In waters no doubt swarming with sharks and jellyfish and all sorts of other toxic, man-eating creatures that wriggle around underwater.

This was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance, for fucks sake. They're not equipped for a firefight with a boatload of well-armed drug runners.

Danny blames McGarrett's uncanny ability to attract trouble like shit attracts flies. In retrospect, he should have planned for mortal danger as soon as he set foot in the office this morning. It's Monday, after all, and McGarrett's track record with Mondays is historically abysmal.

Danny pops up to fire two rounds at the crouching figures in the speedboat to their starboard, then drops back behind the steering column of their rented Bayliner

"Steve," he yells, "where the fuck are you?"

There is a shuffling sound aft of him, and Danny flinches against the side of the boat as bullets _thwap_ against the fiberglass.

"I'm trying to get to the radio to call for backup," Steve's voice sounds from behind the tackle locker. "Hold your position."

"Really, McGarrett? Because I was actually thinking of going for a swim, maybe sunning myself on the deck a little. _Hold my position_… Of course I'm going to hold my damn position! The alternate position at this time is face down and dead, so it's not like it's a difficult choice!"

McGarrett inches into view, gun held up close to his face as he peeks around the bulkhead. His eyes scan Danny before skipping to the radio six feet away.

"Can you reach it?" he asks, and Danny rolls his eyes.

"Not without ventilating my torso. They're taking pot shots at me whenever I try to move."

McGarrett is staring intently at the radio, and he's got that look on his face again. The look he gets right before he does something stupid and borderline suicidal. The look that generally precedes Danny's life turning into a fucking Michael Bay action movie.

"No," Danny hisses, pointing emphatically. "You are _not_ getting yourself shot today, you idiot! Stay down!" If he had a newspaper or magazine handy, he'd roll it up and swat Steve across the nose with it. It works with dogs. But then again, McGarrett is a whole different breed. More like a cat. The kind of cat that rips up your couch and pukes in your shoes and never, ever does what you tell it to.

McGarrett gets his feet under him in a crouch, signaling to Danny with his free hand. Danny still hasn't mastered the fine art of military hand signals, but he gathers it's something along the lines of 'I'm about to do something simultaneously badass and incredibly moronic, regardless of your completely rational and heartfelt protests. Cover me.'

Lord knows Danny's seen that particular set of signals enough to recognize them.

Already beginning the mental tally of paperwork that this little excursion is going to cost them, Danny checks his clip (down to four rounds) and prepares to provide cover fire.

Except…

They're not taking fire. It's quiet, has _been_ quiet for almost a minute now. Something's not right.

"Steve," Danny shouts, "Wait-"

But McGarrett is already up and moving.

"Fuck," Danny hisses, sucking in a breath before twisting to take aim over the side of the boat. He steadies his finger on the trigger and stares down the barrel of his Beretta, right at a man aiming a fucking _bazooka_ at them.

_Oh, shit. Shit!_

"Steve, we've got incoming!" he screams. He frantically weighs his options and concludes quickly that they are both utterly and undeniably fucked.

McGarrett, who had been reaching for the radio, straightens from his crouch and dives towards Danny. He grabs double fistfuls of Danny's shirt and hurls him toward the port side of the boat.

"What the fuck, McGarr-" is all Danny manages to shout before his partner throws him bodily over the rail and into the waves. Briny seawater rushes up his nose and the tail end of McGarrett's name rushes from his open mouth in a burst of bubbles. He twists, trying to remember which way is up, clamping down on the panic that wants to rob him of his self-control.

There, light.

He swims for it, kicking hard, and breaks the surface with a ragged gasp. Waves slap him in the face, kicked up by the wake of their boat as it motors away from him. He can see the back of McGarrett's head where he's standing at the helm (and Jesus, even the back of his head looks intent).

A half kick and twist turns him enough to see the drug runners in their boat, bazooka still aimed unerringly. Steve is drawing their fire away from Danny. The stupid, suicidal fucking moron is making a target of himself for a bazooka.

This is too far, even for Commander Crazy.

"Steve!" Danny screams, slapping the surface of the water in frustration. "Get out of there, McGarett! Fucking jump-"

There is a jet of white smoke from the other boat as they fire. Time seems to slow for a moment, and Danny watches the man holding the bazooka stumble under the unexpected kickback. Steve yanks the wheel hard to port in a last-ditch effort to evade the RPG, but it's not going to be enough. He runs for the rail, feet pushing off the side in a smooth dive just as the round hits the aft hull and explodes.

Danny flinches and turns his face away instinctually, waves buffeting him as the explosion displaces water. He sputters, catching glimpses of splintering fiberglass and fire between waves. Their boat lifts out of the water with the force, shrapnel and wreckage raining into the waves around it.

Danny doesn't see Steve anywhere.

He begins kicking frantically towards the smoking wreck of their boat as it sinks below the waves, taking distant note of the drug runners firing up their engine and speeding away. He watches the water as he swims, waiting for McGarrett's head to break the surface and give him that smug grin he saves for times he knows he's really freaked Danny out.

There's still no sign of him when Danny reaches the wreckage, legs and lungs burning from the strain of swimming hard against the current.

"McGarrett!" Danny screams, scanning the water. The air is smoky and acidic, filled with the smell of burning plastic. Danny's eyes water but he keeps them open, desperately looking for some sign of his partner among the bobbing refuse.

It's all fiberglass and plastic and water (too much fucking water). Danny tries to remember how long the human brain can go without oxygen before incurring damage. It's been too long already. Taking a deep breath, he dives under the surface, twisting and scanning the water for his partner. The water is still churning with bubbles and debris from the explosion and Danny can't see any further than a few feet in front of him. He resurfaces, takes another breath, and dives again. He stays down until his lungs burn, sucking in air desperately when he resurfaces for the second time. Desperation squeezes his chest, the horrible nightmare feeling of having someone you care about slip away second by second.

"Steve!" he screams, voice cracking as he twists in the water.

He's taking another breath to dive when he sees it – a flash of olive green in the trough of a wave. The same color as the shirt McGarrett is wearing. Danny dives under the surface, cutting through the space under the waves with determination. He comes up next to Steve's body where it's drifting face-down amidst the debris.

"Fuck. _Fuck_!" Danny shouts, grabbing a fistful of McGarrett's shirt and rolling him in the water. Steve's face is pale and lax as it breaks the surface. Blood runs in ribbons down his wet skin from a gash above his right eye. Danny loops an arm around Steve's ribs and pulls Steve back to lie against his chest. His head lolls against Danny's shoulder, arms bobbing limply in the current.

"Come on, McGarrett," he says, slapping Steve's cheek with his free hand. "Wake the fuck up."

McGarrett doesn't so much as twitch. Danny rests his palm over his partner's chest, holding his breath as he feels for signs of life. Danny can feel the sluggish thumping of McGarrett's heart under his fingers, but he's not breathing.

"No, no, no… You're _not_ doing this, McGarrett."

Danny slaps Steve's cheek a few more times for good measure, but it does no good.

"Oh, fuck you," Danny yells, bracing Steve's head in the crook of his elbow. "Why the hell did I get stuck with the only SEAL on earth with a penchant for drowning? I'm going to tell the other SEALs, McGarrett. I swear. And they'll laugh at you and revoke your nautical merit badge or something. All of which you can avoid by just fucking breathing already!"

McGarrett's lips have darkened to a dusky blue. Danny grinds his knuckles into Steve's sternum, hoping to trigger a response. When that fails to work he pinches McGarrett's right nipple between his fingers and twists viciously.

Nothing.

"God damn it," Danny hisses, sliding out from behind McGarrett. He buoys Steve's head with a hand at the base of his skull and pinches Steve's nose shut with his free hand. Kicking hard to stay afloat, Danny sucks in a deep breath and seals his mouth over his partner's, blowing steadily.

When he pulls away, McGarrett's chest deflates in an exhale but fails to rise again on its own. Danny pulls in another deep breath and repeats the process with similar results. He gives McGarrett a third breath, and a forth. By the sixth breath he's feeling lightheaded and desperate. It's getting harder to stay afloat. He manages to fill McGarrett's lungs a seventh time and is gasping desperately for the air to manage an eighth when Steve jerks in his hold and makes a strangled sound.

Danny hauls Steve up to rest with his back against Danny's chest, tipping Steve's head forward. Steve chokes and his chest heaves. Water sluices from his mouth as he coughs violently. It sounds like he's trying to breath in and out at the same time, wet and desperate and strangled. It hurts Danny to hear, but at least Steve is breathing on his own again.

"I am _so_ getting you a harness, McGarrett," Danny laughs, unable to suppress the tinge of hysteria in his voice. "One with bells on it, and some of that reflective safety tape."

Steve's head rolls back against Danny's shoulder. His eyelids flutter weakly and he gasps wetly for air but gives no verbal response. Danny takes a moment to note the lack of protest to his plans, fully intending to count it as agreement once they're safely back on dry land.

Because Danny may have been joking about the harness before, but he's sure as shit serious now.

This is the last fucking time he resuscitates his partner, and if he has to use child-safety gear to ensure that, so be it.

"Danny?" Steve moans, coughing and struggling weakly against Danny's arm. "W'happened?"

"What happened, my friend, is that you threw my ass into the ocean and then got yourself blown up by drug dealers. So, you know… Monday. Now hold still before you dunk us both."

"Monday?" Steve sighs against his neck, clearly still too out of it to appreciate Danny's keen wit. At least he stops struggling.

"Never mind," Danny sighs, readjusting his hold and patting McGarrett's chest. "Just focus on breathing and floating for now, okay?"

"Yeah," Steve agrees, "Okay."

Steve's head drops back against Danny's shoulder and his eyes close. It's only then that Danny takes in the full scope of how screwed they are. Their boat is destroyed. They're several miles off-course from where they were supposed to be (thanks to the high-speed boat chase that started this whole clusterfuck), and Steve never managed to call for backup. McGarrett is semi-conscious and bleeding, which is no doubt attracting every man-eating shark within a 30 mile radius.

"What the fuck are we gonna do?" Danny asks.

Steve has very unhelpfully slipped back in unconsciousness and Danny is left with no answer at all.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter 2 for your enjoyment. Thank you all so much for the very kind feedback. I don't have time to respond to everyone individually, but please know that it's very much appreciated. :)

* * *

Steve is safe.

Someone is holding him and rocking him in a gentle rhythm. Everything feels distant and unimportant and he wishes he could stay here forever. He smells the ocean and thinks _home_. There's only one place he's ever felt this safe, only one person who's ever held him like this.

"Mom?" he breathes, the sound of his own voice startling and foreign.

"Not quite," huffs a familiar, male voice from behind him. "Though sometime I feel like it, due to the fact that I'm constantly having to say things like _wear your seatbelt, Steve_, and _don't run into the path of oncoming bullets, Steve, _and _don't drive boats into RPGs, you fucking moron._"

The words swirl and jumble inside Steve's head, bouncing around behind his eyes and making his skull spike with pain. The feeling of safety implodes like a crushed heart and nausea swells up into the back of his throat.

When he gags and vomits onto his own chest, the ache bursts into a white hot flash of agony. The sound of his own pained moan echoes in his skull and makes his brain feel like it's trying to squeeze out through his eyes and ears. He can't stop vomiting, each dry heave driving the pain in his head to a crescendo that ratchets up the nausea and begins the cycle again.

"Hey, hey," the voice says softly, a cold hand bracing his forehead. "Breathe, McGarrett. Breathe."

Steve sucks in an unsteady breath and the pain recedes a little. He leans back against a solid shoulder and focuses on breathing, pushing the pain down like they trained him to do. He swallows convulsively, battling the urge to throw up again. The hand is still on his forehead, cold against his skin. The chill seems to radiate out from that touch, sweeping through the rest of his body and leaving him shivering and weak.

"You with me, babe?"

Steve knows that voice.

"Danno?"

"Who the hell else would get stranded in the middle of the ocean with you?"

It's only then that Steve realizes they're floating and he's wet (And cold. Really cold). His awareness of their situation is patchy and vague, data floating in and out of his brain like flotsam on a tide. It fills him with an undefined dread, like he's two steps behind reality.

"Hey, can you open your eyes for me?" Danny asks. Steve tries, but as soon as his lids begin to open the bright Hawaiian sun pierces straight to the core of pain behind his eyes. He slams them shut again and clenches his jaw, pressing back against Danny's shoulder and breathing harshly through his teeth.

"Okay, that's a no," Danny says, voice tight with concern. "That's fine. You just keep them closed for now. Nothing out here to see anyways. Just a whole lotta blue."

"Yeah. Okay," Steve grunts. He realizes that somewhere along the line he's grabbed onto Danny's forearm and is now squeezing it in a vice-like grip. He forces his hand to relax and let go, despite the small, childish part of him that still wants to hang on. He lets his arm splash back down into the waves, shuddering as the cool water chills his skin.

Danny uses his freed hand to splash some water over Steve's chest. Cleaning away the vomit, Steve thinks with a flush of humiliation. He wants to apologize. Sorry for letting you see me puke. Sorry for being weak.

"What happened?" he asks instead.

"The boat full of drug runners? The bazooka? Any of this ringing a bell?"

Steve gets the feeling he's had this question answered before, but when he searches his memory all he finds is a disconnected sense of danger. He shrugs apologetically. He feels his partner's chest heave in a sigh against his back, a warm tickle of breath ghosting over his neck.

He shivers again and Danny absently rubs at his arm. Steve should tell him that it's a useless gesture, that the tiny bit of friction he's creating is nothing compared to the body heat the ocean is leaching from them. But Steve likes the way it feels and Danny always feels better when he has something to do with his hands, so Steve stays silent.

"Long story short," Danny says, "You blew up our boat and yourself, and now we're stranded in the middle of the ocean. Congratulations on finding yet another way to give me gray hair. You know, I don't even think we have a code for this on any of our incident reports. We'll have to create new paperwork just to encompass the incredible scope of this day's fuckery."

It takes Steve a moment to follow what Danny's saying, his brain lagging a few seconds behind his ears, but he can't help but smile a little when he finally muddles through.

"Sorry," he sighs.

"Well, now I know you've been brain damaged," Danny says with mock amazement. "Because you're actually apologizing, and I didn't have to punch you or scream at you or anything."

"It happens."

"Oh, it does? Really? When? Because I've been working with you for six months now and in that time I think you've apologized to me unprompted, let's see… _carry the one_… oh, that's right. _Never_."

"Hm. Sorry," Steve says without meaning to.

"Oh my god, twice in less than five minutes. Please, no more – I don't think my heart could take it."

Danny readjusts his grip around Steve's chest, pulling him up and in. The movement awakens new pains in his ribs and belly and his left hip flares with the sort of deep ache that comes with bone bruising. He must grunt or stiffen because Danny freezes and Steve can practically _feel_ the laser-like look of concern aimed at the side of his head.

"What?" Danny says, voice anxious. "Did that hurt? Are you hurt somewhere else?"

"No," Steve tries to lie. The shaky way his voice comes out does little to back up the untruth.

"Don't you dare lie to me about this, McGarrett. We're floating alone in the god damned ocean and I've spent the last twenty minutes keeping your waterlogged, unconscious body afloat after fishing you out of the drink and resuscitating your ass, so when I ask you if you're hurt anywhere else you better fucking tell me the truth."

"You resuscitated my ass?" Steve asks, a last ditch effort to deflect the question as well as a habitual reflex that drives him to push Danny's buttons. It takes a few more seconds to process the fact that apparently he'd stopped breathing and his partner had revived him. By then it's too late to take back the joke.

"This isn't funny, you asshole," Danny says, his tone clearly backing up his words. "You weren't breathing. I thought you were _dead_. So stop fucking around and _tell me where else you're hurt_."

Steve wants to apologize again, but Danny said not to and for some reason it seems really important that Steve do what Danny wants right now.

"Uh, my ribs hurt," he says.

"Which side?" Danny asks, loosening his hold on Steve's chest. "They broken?"

"Left," Steve admits. "Not broken, I think. Just bruised, maybe one or two cracked? S'hard to tell."

"What else?"

"Stomach."

"How bad? Are we talking _I got kicked in the guts_ kinda pain, or _I'm bleeding to death from a ruptured spleen_ kinda pain?"

Steve shifts uncomfortably, grimacing at the knotted discomfort in his core.

"Just hurts," he says. He knows he has the words to explain himself better, but they slither out of his reach like eels.

Danny's free hand slips around Steve's body and under the drifting hem of his tee. Blunt fingers slide over his abs, pressing against the tensed muscles there. Steve grunts when Danny hits a tender spot and his partner pats his belly apologetically before removing his hand.

"Doesn't feel too rigid," Danny tells him. "I don't think you're bleeding internally. What else?"

"My left hip's a little sore," Steve says. "That's it."

"Okay," Danny says, voice relaxing. "That's not so bad. Not so good, either, but I think you'll live. Assuming anyone figures out where we are before the sharks get us."

"Sharks?"

"Yeah, you know – big gray things with a fuck-ton of teeth, like to snack on surfers? Often preceded by ominous string music?"

"S'fine. Shark attacks are rare."

"Well, your bleeding head wound combined with your atrocious luck don't make me feel overly confident about our chances. There's a reason I never go swimming in this shark-infested hell-hole. I like all my limbs attached and all my blood inside, thank you very much."

"Oh," Steve says, late to the party again. "You're swimming, Danny."

"Yes, congratulations Commander Obvious," Danny says. "You finally got me in the water. If I'd known you were going to resort to such drastic measures I would have just gone for a dip in a pool or something. And speaking of swimming, now that you've been conscious for more than two minutes do you think you could give that a try? There's a big piece of fiberglass drifting about 300 feet behind us. I'd like to try to reach it, but you're heavy as shit and I'm starting to get a little fatigued here, keeping us both afloat."

"Sure," Steve says. "Okay."

They drift in silence for a moment before Steve feels Danny sigh again.

"I realize I don't have the sort of extensive training that you SEALs get, McGarrett, but I'm pretty sure that swimming works better if you, ya know, _move_."

Oh. Yeah. He's supposed to be swimming.

Bracing for the pain he knows is coming, Steve cracks his eyes open. The sun is just as bright as before and his eyes water madly. He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust, and eventually he is able to open his eyes in a squint. For a moment he feels better, more grounded in reality now that he can see his surroundings. But his heart sinks as his sluggish brain catches up with what he's seeing. Danny was right when he said a whole lotta blue. There's nothing but blue sky, blue water, distantly drifting sea birds.

"McGarrett? You with me?" Danny asks, fisting a hand in the shoulder of Steve's shirt.

"Yeah," Steve says, gently extricating himself from Danny's hold. His hip throbs as he kicks his legs experimentally, but his head stays above the surface. Danny keeps his hold on Steve's shirt for a moment, his blonde head bobbing in the waves. He looks bedraggled and worried and pissed and very much _Danny_, and Steve finds it oddly comforting. When Danny reluctantly lets go of Steve's shirt, Steve feels disoriented and adrift. The rocking motion of the waves makes his stomach roil with renewed nausea, but he fights it down and breathes deeply, setting his eyes on the vague spot of white fiberglass behind Danny's head.

Danny nods at him and turns to swim away.

Steve sets his jaw and kicks after him.

TBC


End file.
